


And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

by MisanthropyMuse



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:13:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1926318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisanthropyMuse/pseuds/MisanthropyMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras sees a man playing his guitar on a pavement outside a café. He doesn't understand why he looks so familiar. That night, he starts having really confusing dreams. </p><p>«Hey, do you permit me to sing you a song?»<br/>Enjolras startled. He looked around, nervous, while the guy still stared and smiled, as if he knew, as if he had chosen those words on purpose. The blond one shook his head. It made no sense. They had never seen each other and those words meant nothing to him.<br/>It probably was just because they guy was cute and seemed to be hitting on him.<br/>«I can’t stop you.» Enjolras replied, trying to look calm.<br/>Yes, definitely, it was just because of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

A fast, continuous flow of curses was passing through Enjolras’ mind.

He was late. For what was probably the first time in his entire life, he was late to class, and he couldn’t bear it.

It was all his neighbour’s fault, those idiots who made the power go off in the entire condo in the middle of the night, making his alarm clock reset.

He was internally swearing, because he was a nice guy and never swore out loud, and he was angry and he was late ,  so late he was hating everyone around him who was pacing slowly or even dared to be still.

So, as he turned a corner to get to the bus stop, after having mentally cursed the bus that had just left, he glanced at the café on the corner and passively hated everyone inside and around it.

Sitting on the pavement just outside there was a guy almost his age, with an acoustic guitar on his lap and its case opened in front of him.

He was playing and singing slow pop songs, flashing his incredibly cute smile at the passers-by to get them to give him a couple of dollars.

Enjolras leaned against the bus stop pole, two meter away from the corner, and looked at him. He couldn’t help but notice that he had a lovely voice, and also, after a couple of seconds, he started finding him strangely familiar.

(he was also really, really cute, but he was doing his best not to think about it)

The guy raised his eyes from the five dollars someone just dropped into his case and looked at Enjolras. He stared at Enjolras. He smiled.

Just when Enjolras started feeling uncomfortable and was about to turn around, the guy spoke.

«Hey, do you permit me to sing you a song?»

Enjolras startled. He looked around, nervous, while the guy still stared and smiled, as if he knew, as if he had chosen those words on purpose. The blond one shook his head. It made no sense. They had never seen each other and those words meant nothing to him.

It probably was just because they guy was cute and seemed to be hitting on him.

«I can’t stop you.» Enjolras replied, trying to look calm.

Yes, definitely, it was just because of that.

The guy lowered his eyes, Enjolras hadn’t even caught their colour, and tried a few chords. Then, when he got the right one, he looked at the other again and started.

« _Well I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord._ » he sang, quietly, sweetly. Enjolras couldn’t help but smile again.

He was so good, and that song was really beautiful. Oddly, he had never really paid attention to the lyrics. But now that that guy was singing them, he couldn’t not listen.

« _But you don't really care for music, do_ you?» the player sang, and it felt as strange as his first words. Enjolras felt again like he had already seen him, somewhere, somewhen. And even worse than that, it felt like the guy knew him, knew him for real.

The stranger kept singing, maybe not noticing Enjolras’ distress, maybe not caring.

Enjolras startled when he heard the bus approaching. The cute guitar player had completely caught his attention, and he had forgotten he had class and he was also late for it.

Also, the song was not over. Enjolras threw an apologising look at the guy.

«Sorry mate, I’m already late for class.» he said, and the other just nodded, smiled and kept playing.

«See you?» Enjolras asked, and the other didn’t reply. He just nodded again, staring intently.

His eyes looked dark from that distance, brown or even black, matching the wild curls on his head.

As he sang the refrain, Enjolras got on the bus, almost tripping on the stairs because he couldn’t stop looking at him.

He sat next to the window and their eyes met. The other’s lips moved, forming words that didn’t belong to the song. Enjolras wasn’t good at lip reading, he had never been, but he was pretty sure he was saying ‘good luck’.

That night, alone in his flat, Enjolras couldn’t fall asleep.

He kept rolling in his bed, thinking about the guitar player, about his familiar face and his words. He still felt like he had seen him somewhere, but he really couldn’t remember where or when, and he couldn’t calm down enough to sleep.

He hadn’t anyone to talk to. Only Cosette, maybe, one of his colleague, but they weren’t close enough for him to call her in the middle of the night to tell her about some stranger.

So, he just had to wait for tiredness to win over his thoughts.

Hours later, when he finally closed his eyes without snapping them open right after, he dreamt.

Confused images but familiar at the same time.

_A gun in his hand and heavy smoke all around him. Blood and dirt on his clothes, on his hands, on his face. A light in the dark, cutting through the smoke as the rising sun cuts the night and ignites the day. Warm, soft, almost shy, on wood and stones and blood and his tired shoulders. _

And words, sweetly whispered by someone he couldn’t see, someone who couldn’t be touched by light. Words he couldn’t hear clearly, as if they were muffled by the smoke. Smoke that was getting heavier and heavier as the light rose.

It filled his eyes, getting them teary, and his lungs, making him choke.

He tried to cough it away, but it seemed to be sticking inside him. So he cried instead, because it was the only thing he could do. Tears rolled down his cheeks, he felt them on his fingertips.

He wanted to lay down, he was so tired, but he had something to do, something important.

But what? The words tried to tell him, he knew they did, but he didn’t understand.

And then, out of nowhere, a shot.

Enjolras felt like falling and woke up with a start and a pounding headache. He didn’t notice the dried tears on his face.

He rolled out of the bed and crawled to the shower, hoping that the hot water could help him forget the haunting feeling pressing on his chest. It didn’t, but it helped him pretend that it did.

He made himself a bowl full of cereals and curled up on the couch. The nightmare had woken him an hour before what was necessary, and he had time to watch TV, hoping that the news were interesting enough to distract him from his thoughts.

It didn’t work, this time. He just kept thinking about the stranger and wanted to see him again, to talk to him.

Two hours later, when he finally got out of his flat and ran to the bus stop, he had his heart stuck in his throat and his hands were shivering so hard he had to keep them in his pockets not to look like a fool.

He turned the corner and he was about to explode when he looked at the café and didn’t see him.

His heart fell from his throat to his feet, and he felt miserable. The only chance he had to make his mind clearer had disappeared into thin air and was nowhere to be found.

He didn’t know who the stranger was, where he lived or how to found him again.

He waited there for a while, losing two buses, and felt even more miserable as well as stupid and desperate. When he finally got the bus he tried to cheer himself up, saying that maybe that was good, maybe he would have stopped thinking about him if he hadn’t seen him again.

Bullshit. It was all bullshit and something inside him knew too damn well.

But however, he tried hard enough and almost managed to act like a normal, sane person for most of the day.

That afternoon, at the bookshop where he worked, he couldn’t find the courage to tell Cosette about what happened because he felt it was really too crazy, and so he decided to force his help to every customer that walked in, just to have something to do. If Cosette found it crazy, she had the kindness not to say anything.

Back at home, after dinner and another shower and another session of TV, he went to bed to face another exhausting night, wondering how long it would have lasted.

It took weeks before the smoke started dissipating and the dreams started making a bit more of sense. Even if he still didn’t know what they were about, he could at least recognise what he was looking at.

_(a funeral procession, a crowd of people, angry people, tired people, old men and women and children, students, angrier than everyone. a song crawling through them, whispered, hummed. _

a flag, red as blood, waving in the wind, from the hands of a young man)

That red started haunting him. It was everywhere in his dreams. On every flag, on the young man jacket, on everyone’s hands and faces.

Even when he was awake, he just had to close his eyes to see it painted on the back of his eyelids.

_(another flag, just as red, but still this time, on top of a little mountain of stones and barrels and wood. was that a cart? was that a corpse? an angel sitting next to it, a halo of blond hair around his head, and words flowing from his red lips, words of hope and joy, words of desperation disguised as courage) _

And whatever and whoever they might show, every dream ended the same: with a shot and a fall, and him waking up in tears.

_(there was someone with a long braid and flowers in his hair, someone who died alone shouting his courage and loyalty. there was someone with glasses and a heart of gold, someone who died in hope, looking at the infinite. there were a hopeless old man who died for a banner and a little bird who flew too high)_

Every shot was like inflicted to him. He wondered he didn’t have bruises on his chest.

Every death was as painful as his own. He woke up choking on his tears.

He watched them die and cried, and shouted his pain to the night that couldn’t leave him in peace.

_(a gun in his hand, firing at soldiers, at innocent men just like him, fighting for their ideals, for their own cause. tears in his eyes as he saw the light leave theirs, as he felt the weight of their deaths on his shoulders and their blood on his hands)_

He didn’t even know what holding a gun felt like! How could he dream about it? How could it feel so real? He was so tired of those nightmare, he was so damn tired of not knowing, not understanding! He didn’t even remember what a proper night of sleep felt like.

And that young man, that angel in red, it couldn’t be him, but they looked so much alike.

The only thing missing was the stranger.

The dreams had started when they had met, but he hadn’t shown up in them yet.

The dreams repeated themselves, just the same over and over again, night after night.

After a while, Enjolras started paying attention to them. He was sure the stranger was there, somewhere, and he only had to find him.

So he started looking for him, among the other people he now had learnt to know.

And he started finding him, at the corners of his dreams, sitting with a bottle in his hand and staring at him. Sometimes he dreamt of him drunkenly ranting about how society sucked. Sometimes he dreamt of them arguing.

It was good to see him, even if he still didn’t know who he was and why he was there.

A night, a glorious night, he even found out his name.

_There was a meeting, there was something important to do, and no one could do it. _

He offered. He said he believed in him.

And then,  Grantaire will you do me a service?,  Enjolras had said.

He had interrupted the dream, waking up from the surprise.

(he had dreamed the same scene again the night after, and this time he had slept till the end of it, and he laughed so hard he woke up when he saw him playing domino)

When awake, Enjolras staggered into his life in confusion, pale, with bags under his eyes.

Every food tasted like ashes in his mouth, every person around him made him want to run away, his bed was as comfortable as a bed of nails.

He spent all his free time wandering around the city, looking for his stranger, because he knew that he knew, he had to bring things back to normal or at least explain what the hell was happening to him and what those dreams meant.

He had asked everyone at the café where he had seen him for the first time, at the bookshop where he worked, at the university, but no one seemed to know him.

He walked around and repeated his name under his breath.

Grantaire, Grantaire, Grantaire, Grantaire.

He thought he saw him sometimes, in passers-by, in customers, in classmates, but every time he looked better he had disappeared.

He was going crazy. He could feel it. His life was shattering to pieces and he didn’t know how to stop it.

And then, one day, the last piece finally came off.

It was half an hour before the closing time, and the shop was empty. There was only Cosette there, reading poetry and eating chips at her desk.

Enjolras was putting a few books in the right shelves when his eyes landed on a book.

On its cover there was a portrait of Robespierre, and above his head the title, in French, ‘ _Discours sur la religion, la République et l'esclavage’_.

Enjolras stopped and slowly took the book in his hand.

A flash: the same title on a ragged book cover, faded black ink on yellowish paper, rough and light in his hand.

It wasn’t a dream. Enjolras stumbled backwards and hit the bookshelf behind him. A few books fell on the ground, making Cosette startle.

It wasn’t a dream. His heart was pounding in his chest. He wanted to run, to scream, to throw things on the ground.

It was a memory, he had never dreamt that. It was a memory!

Enjolras fell on his knees and started crying, silently at first and then in loud sobs that shook his entire body.

Cosette was looking at him without understanding, not knowing what to do.

«M-Max? Is everything okay?» she asked.

Enjolras startled hearing that name. He had almost forgotten he had a first name, as used as he was to being just Enjolras in all his dreams.

His sobs increased. He still had the book in his hand.

«Hey, mate, what’s up?» she asked, crouching next to him, with a hand on his shoulder. She saw the book in his hand and pulled out a light smile.

«What’s so upsetting about Robespierre? I know he was an asshole but come on, we’ve had worse and I’ve never seen you crying over _Mein Kampf_ » she said. He laughed a little. He felt the need of explaining to her what was happening to him, but he really didn’t know how.

«Have you...» he took a deep breath. «Have you ever felt like- like it’s not the first time you’re alive?» he sighed. «I mean, I know it’s stupid but, I feel like I’ve already seen this book. In another life.» he said, finally stopping crying and looking up to see her reaction.

«Is this just a really bad déjà-vu?» she asked, a bit unsure.

«No, no, it isn’t a déjà-vu. It’s different. It’s like a real memory, a totally different one, but it’s not of my current life.» he tried to explain, realising how crazy that could sound but going on anyway.

«I know it’s crazy, sorry. I’m definitely going totally mad lately.» he muttered when he saw her shocked face, wiping away his tears.

«Sorry about this.» he gestured towards the fallen books, reaching over to pile them. «I’m putting everything in order. You can go home if you want.» he added.

Cosette was still looking at him, even more upset than before.

«Hey, did I really shocked you that bad?» he asked then, a bit offended.

She slowly shook her head.

«No. It’s... not you. I’m sorry. I’ll help you. Can I give you a lift home? I don’t want you to freak out in the middle of the street, it could be dangerous.» she quickly said, fumbling with her words.

«Yes, you can.» he smiled.

Together, they put the fallen books back on the shelf and switched off every light.

Once out, they walked to Cosette’s car.

«Listen, do you really want to go home? I’m joining my boyfriend and his friends at the pub next to the uni, maybe you want to spend some time not thinking about whatever you were talking about before? You seem seriously stressed out lately.» she proposed as she opened the car, glancing at him from over the hood.

He looked at her and considered her proposal for a while. He could really use some social time, given that since he left his home town he has had none. But he was tired and stressed out, and he need a shower and had essays to revise.

«I’d love to, but I’m really too tired, sorry.» he said, and Cosette sighed.

«Fine. But you’ll have to accept some day. I know for a fact that you have made no friends here, and I can’t let myself let you stay on your own for an entire year of college.» she said, smiling lightly and getting in the car.

Enjolras smiled as well, joining her and leaning against the seatback.

She drove him home and reminded him of her mission before he could get out.

«Maybe I’ll let you make me go out, some day, when I don’t risk bursting out crying in public places.» he smirked. She rolled her eyes.

«Thank you, Cosette. See you tomorrow.» he said then, fondly, and get out of the car as she replied with a ‘good night!’.

Later, laying down, staring at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep, Enjolras thought about what Cosette had said.

In eight months of college, he still hadn’t made any friends. He had some back at home, old classmates from high school, family friends, but nobody special. Not that he was a very outgoing and social person. He didn’t really love people, after all, and he had never complained for his lack of close friends.

But now, after Cosette, and most of all after what he had seen in his recent dreams, he thought that maybe he had been missing something, something important, maybe necessary.

The next time, he decided, he would have accepted Cosette’s invitation.

That night he dreamt of being again the blond angel in red, surrounded by his friends and comrades, in that back room he had by now learned to know well. There were all of them, cheerful and noisy, talking and drinking and laughing. Grantaire, in a corner, was staring at him, drinking silently for once. Someone sometimes came up to him to offer him a drink, to tell him something, to share a laugh. In the dream, Enjolras felt loved, accepted, as he had never had the chance to feel in his real (current?) life.

He woke up crying again, and felt miserable.

After a long shower and a chocolate-based breakfast, just a moment before going out, Enjolras texted Cosette.

_"Can I accept your invitation tonight?"_

He sighed looking at the screen. Was he really so desperate to go look for comfort in other people? Did he really need others to be fine?

He pocketed his phone and forgot about it.

At the bus stop he looked at the obviously empty corner and sighed a little less heavily then the other days. _Progress, Enjolras, good_ , he sarcastically told himself.

In class, he was so tired he found it almost impossible to pay attention to whatever the professor was saying, so he turned on his sound recorder and spent the entire morning scribbling on his notebook and snoozing on his desk.

Once out of the university, Enjolras stopped at the cafeteria to get a sandwich and a coffee.

He still had an hour and half before going to work, so he indulged himself in sliding into the first open pub and getting a beer, even if it was only two in the afternoon.

He felt more and more miserable with every sip. He looked around, observed the old men sipping on their drinks, slouched on the counter, and then looked at the bartender.

His heart started racing all of a sudden.

He looked so familiar, with his curly hair and his Cheshire cat smile as he swept a cloth over the counter. Enjolras felt his head spinning.

He closed his eyes and saw him in another bar, in another time, with the same hair and the same smile, a glass of wine in his hand and his arm around someone’s shoulders.

He opened his eyes and looked at the bartender again, terrified. When he closed his eyes again, he saw the same hair covered in blood, dust and sweat, and that beaming smile cracking when a bullet hit his chest. He saw him falling on the ground, still trying to grasp breath, to grasp the life that was mercilessly leaving him. He saw him dying, he saw his blood soaking the dirt, he saw the soldiers stepping over his body.

His eyes snapped open and he got up with a start, in the present again. He ignored the questioning looks everyone threw him.

It couldn’t be, he told himself, shaking his head. He left the beer unfinished on the bar and rushed out, about to feel sick.

He got on a bus and started laughing hysterically, frightening a couple of girls and an old man. He curled on the dirty plastic seat and hid his head into his hands, trying to stop himself from shivering.

It couldn’t be. He was going mad. He was having hallucinations.

It just couldn’t be real.

When he got down the bus in front of the bookshop, he was surprised to find it still empty five minutes before opening.

He checked his phone and found two messages from Cosette.

_"Yes! We’ll go just after work :)"_

"I’m sorry I can’t come to work today, I’ll send a friend to help you. Still going to pick you up there for tonight, though."

He smiled, despite everything that had just happened and wrote a quick response to say that he was looking forward to going out. A lie she wouldn’t really believe, but it helped him starting to believe it.

He opened the bookshop and organised the piles of flyers and newly arrived books around the counter, before turning the sign on the door and slouching on his little chair, already prepared to get bored.

He had sold two copies of _Fifty shades of Grey_ to two embarrassed middle-aged women and had forgotten about Cosette’s words when her friend arrived.

As he stood out of the glass door, Enjolras saw him and his heart stopped.

_She knew,_ he thought, feeling panic rise in his chest, before his world collapsed onto him and images forced themselves before his eyes.

_A gun in his hand, smoke all around him, blood soaking his clothes. A weight on his shoulders, his weariness, the feeling of being surrounded by people, the feeling of being in danger._

A light. Slow and warm, rising behind him and turning the black smoke into gold.

The neon lights above his head shone on glazed book covers and stands of colourful bookmarks. There was a pen in his hand, cold sweat on his back, and bookshelves all around.

They guy opened the door, on the other side of the shop, and slowly walked in.

_A wind rose with the light and pushed away the smoke._

It crawled back, away from him, disappearing slowly, inch by inch, and revealing a room.

A room filled with tables and chairs, with dust and sawdust, and people.

There was no one around him. Only books, only wood, only clean, white walls.

And only that stranger standing by the door, blurring as Enjolras’ eyes filled with tears.

_Soldiers. Soldiers pointing guns at him. Soldiers angry with him._

They said he was the leader. The leader of what?

He just worked there. He didn’t even owned it. He didn’t even know the owner.

_Shoot me, he replied, as sure of himself as he had never been in real life._

Twelve soldiers before him, still pointing, but less sure.

Do you wish to have your eyes bandaged?, they asked.

No, he replied.

The room spun around him. Was he going to die? He didn’t want to see them shooting him. He didn’t want to be shot at all.

_Was it you who killed the artillery sergeant?, they asked._

Yes, he replied.

He had never shot anyone. He had never held a gun in his entire life.

The pen in his hand suddenly felt heavy and he dropped it.

_There was silence all around, terrible, heavy silence. Enjolras waited._

The silence was the only thing that was the same in both the scenarios. But the present, the real Enjolras was waiting for explanations and for the panic to release him.

He gaped, grasping his chest in the desperate attempt to get some air. The stranger started walking towards him.

_As one of the soldiers was about to shout take aim, a voice rose from a corner of the room._

Long live the Republic! I'm one of them, it said. And then a man rose with it.

The two men overlapped in Enjolras’ eyes, and he whimpered as he realised how alike the looked.

«Are you okay?» the present one asked. The same voice. The _same_ voice.

Panic rose.

_Hope filled Enjolras, even if he was about to get killed, even if all his friends had died and his revolution had failed._

Long live the Republic!, the man shouted again...

«Be easy. Breathe. It’s okay. Everything’s fine.» the man in front of him said...

_...and walked towards Enjolras until he was standing at his side._

...and walked towards Enjolras until he was crouching next to his chair.

_Finish both of us at one blow, he told the soldiers. They stared, frozen, pretending not to be shocked._

«I can call an ambulance.» he said, and no one was there to see them, no one was about to kill them.

_Then, the man turned to Enjolras, and sweetly said, Do you permit it?_

«Do you permit it?» he said, his eyes sweet and his voice low, a hand hovering over his.

_Enjolras looked into his eyes. They were blue as the sea in winter and the sky at dawn._

The same blue, the same sweetness, the same care.

_He took his hand._

He clasped his wrist.

_He smiled._

He whimpered.

_The report resounded._

Tears started streaming down his cheeks.

_Enjolras fell back, eight bullets in his chest, still smiling. The stranger fell at his feet._

Enjolras fell from the chair and hit his head against the counter, passing out. The stranger called the emergency number.

  
  


It was the first dreamless sleep he had in weeks. He woke in an unfamiliar room, but at first he was too relaxed to worry about it. He has barely the time to see white walls around him before falling asleep again.

  
  


But this time he dreamt.

Not the dreams he was now used to, but other times, other places. The only recurring things were the people who were his friends in his first dreams, and the stranger. Grantaire. In all his dreams, Grantaire was with him, holding his hand, caressing him, kissing him. He felt love rise in his chest even when he saw them arguing.

And the others, all the people he had drank with, all the people he had seen dying, from the bartender with the wide smile, Courfeyrac, to a pretty blond girl, Cosette, from the little pup who finally had the chance to grow up, to the old man who never fell into misery and disgrace.

He dreamt about all the lives he had lived in their light, about all the drinks they had shared and all the hugs that had took his breath away and all the smiles that had replied to his.

He dreamt of being happy and loved, again, he dreamt of living a long happy life and dying old, holding Grantaire’s hand, he dreamt of laughing and loving and kissing, of rolling on grass and between bed sheets, of giving speeches, of winning rows.

He dreamt of thousands of different skies passing over his head, of sunrise and sunsets, of shooting stars and funny shaped clouds. Of flowers and trees, of beaches and oceans, of temples and churches, of snow and wolves, of black banners with something red on them, of horses and wars, of killing and being killed, of shouting orders and hiding behind trenches. He dreamt of a walls crumbling down, of stolen treasures, of different clothes and skin tones and hair cuts and even genders or species.

He dreamt of all the lives he had had since his soul was first sent in this world.

He dreamt and he remembered.

  
  


When he woke up again the room was dark and someone was stroking his blankets.

Someone he recognised instantly, only by seeing the way his eyes shone in the dark, the way his back rested against the armchair back, the way his fingers caressed the light duvet.

He would have recognised him everywhere, whatever his look was.

Their eyes met in the dark, and they both smiled.

Enjolras remembered his panic attack from before, and he felt guilty and stupid, but Grantaire held his hand and he could not really think about anything else.

«R.» he managed, his voice rough and low.

«My love.» the other said, with a smile so fond it made Enjolras melt a little.

«I’m sorry I panicked.» Enjolras muttered, trying to sound sure and sincere, despite his lack of voice.

Grantaire smiled. «You always do that. I guess it’s part of you, by now, freaking out when you realise how hot I am.»

Enjolras squeezed his hand and frowned a little, but he was smiling.

«I remember you crying when I came to kidnapped you in, what was it, 700?» Enjolras said. Grantaire pouted.

«I was a little young monk being ravaged by a northman, I had every right to freak out.» he said.

«I wasn’t ravaging you.» Enjolras objected, a bit unsure about what he had just remembered.

«Maybe that was why I was so upset.» Grantaire grinned. Enjolras squeezed his hand again.

They stayed in silence for a while, still holding hands, still smiling and staring and enjoying each other’s presence.

«What about the others?» Enjolras asked after a while.

«They’ve gone home a couple of hours ago. I told them I would call when you’d wake up. I will, if you want.» Grantaire replied.

«You’ve been sitting here for...» he started saying, shocked, but then he remembered he didn’t knew how long he had been there. He asked it.

«Eighteen hours total.» Grantaire smiled. «But not really, Cosette took my place for a couple of hours, when I went out to smoke and to eat something. I wasn’t here when you woke up for the first time.» he said, and he sounded sorry.

«If you had been here I would have never fell asleep again.» Enjolras smiled, even if it wasn’t really true. If he had found anyone next to him the first time he had woken up, still not knowing anything, he would have freaked out again, but Grantaire didn’t need to know that.

He was about to ask something, but a yawn made him stop.

«How much sleep have you got in the last weeks?» Grantaire laughed, sweetly caressing his hair.

«Never enough.» Enjolras yawned again.

«Go back to sleep then, you need it. We’ll all be here when you wake up.» Grantaire said, smoothing the wrinkles on his blankets.

«I want you to get some rest as well.» the blonde said, pouting a little. Grantaire smiled.

«Already giving orders, uh?» he joked. «I will, don’t worry. Just think about yourself now, okay?»

«Okay. I want to kiss you.» he said then, trying to look imperious despite his sleepy eyes.

«That I can help.» Grantaire smirked and leaned down to meet his lips.

They were as soft and sweet as he remembered them.

They tasted each other, with tenderness and hunger, longing for more contact, but when Enjolras parted his lips to let his tongue slip into Grantaire’s mouth, the other pulled away.

«Rest, now. Making out, later.» he grinned against his hear, kissing his lobe. «I won’t let you sleep for another week, if you want.» he added, his voice rough with desire made Enjolras shiver, and then he went curling on his armchair.

«I love you. I always have.» Enjolras muttered, pressing his head on the pillow.

«I love you too. I always will.» Grantaire replied in a whisper.

A couple of minutes later they were both asleep, the taste of the other still fresh on their lips.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic is vaguely inspired to this amazing video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBOcjsnDhSs&app=desktop  
> It's unbetaed so I apologise for any mistake. I hope you liked it as much as I liked writing it.  
> Comments are always welcomed ♥


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